“I saw a friend of mine the other day,
and he told me that
my eyes were gleaming,
and I said ‘I’ve been away,”
and he knew, oh he knew the
depths I was meaning.
It felt so good to he see his face,
and the comfort
invested in my soul
to feel the warmth of his smile
when he said ‘I’m happy to
have you home.’”
Those lyrics are from the song “Keep Your Head Up,” by Ben
Howard, one of my favorite lyricists of all time. I thought about trying to
come up with my own words to describe how I felt the other day, but sometimes I just
have to admit when somebody else has already said it better than I ever could.
You see, while having coffee with a friend, we both came to the realization
that something had changed in me over the last year, and changed for the
better. Having thought about it for a while now, I think the only word to
describe it is “joy.” I have joy in my life. Not happiness – happiness is
fleeting and perhaps the most superficial of all emotions – but joy. Real,
tangible joy that sits in my soul, more as a state of being than as an emotion.
For people who don’t know me, that doesn’t really seem like
a big deal. But as someone who spent a long time suffering in the depths of
major depression and saddled with the spiritual, emotional, relational, and
physical emptiness it brings, the advent of joy at many points over the last
two years would have seemed unthinkable. In fact, the realization of
experiencing joy only adds to my joy! It’s incredible to see how far I’ve come,
and how much God’s glory has shone through my brokenness. For the first time I’m
starting to understand Romans 5:3-5 when it says that we rejoice in our sufferings
because suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, and character
produces hope; hope does not disappoint us. The last two years were full of a
lot of suffering, and it wasn’t fun. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t something that
seemed meaningful. Yet here I sit on the outside of it, and I can see the
spirit of perseverance it produced in me. There were so many days that, in my
self-centered ignorance, I saw no point in continuing to persevere in my fight
against POTS when it seemed completely futile. Every day, I would find myself
at some point asking “why?” Why do I keep doing this? It’s insane. I have every
valid reason to quit. Furthermore, I could quit and most people would applaud
me and pat me on the back for making it farther than anybody ever thought I
would. I don’t know how I made it through every day, to be completely honest. And don't worry, I have a whole other post coming on this, so if you find yourself struggling with that same problem, hang in there. I'm getting to it. Also, email me at amyswearer@yahoo.com. I'd love nothing more than to talk to you.
But here, by the grace of God, I stand. And I stand with a
purpose. At Nebraska, we talk a lot about setting standards. In whatever you do, you set a standard of performance that other people will see as example of what needs to be done and how much effort needs to be put into doing it. Whether the standard you set is poor or the standard you set is perfection, it's up to you to set it and to realize that wherever you set that standard is where everyone else is going to try to match it. You see, for so long the standard of life for people with POTS had
been set at an unacceptably low point. I realize now that it’s my job, your
job, our job to raise that standard and to give hope to everyone who comes
after us. Right now, we have no one to look to but ourselves and we must be the
trailblazers who show others how to live a full and joyful life with POTS. And
we cannot quit halfway. Why? Because if we quit halfway, the burden falls even
heavier on those who will inevitably be diagnosed years from now. They will
have the excuse to point to us and say, “Look, they tried really hard, and they
failed. What hope do I possibly have to succeed?” They will have even more
stories of heartbreak and failure dropped onto their backs, and the way becomes
harder for them. They will see our standard of quitting, and they will think that trying and failing is as high of a standard as can possibly be reached. But if we win – if we raise that standard – they can look to
us and say, “They did it, and I can do it, too.” They will see our standard and look to match it, to better it. We have a purpose. Our
struggles have meaning. Our stories give hope. Our paths will be followed. Here’s
to raising the bar!
My name is Amy Swearer, and POTS stole my life. I'm taking it back.
